1. Fiction & Flesh

I already know him in my mind. But the fiction now tastes insipid.

Here is flesh. Taut.

And where he stands, I smell his scent too. Raw. All him.

Fiction is now flesh. Incarnate. Carnal as the light sheen on his flushed skin.

He’s no longer just a stray thought. Furtively, I see his sweat trickle to the elastics of his white jockeys. As I lick the heat from my lips, I can taste him again. The steam is delicious. Salty. Warm.  A familiar fiction that has nourished me nightly.

I sit in front of him. There I beheld the power.

His power lurks below the white elastics. Below, I behold, where the shadows are fenced in. Barely contained.

I have known him. In my mind I already know. I know that in the shadows of his borders, his power lies.

I am power hungry.

PS: What would you do if he’s in the steam room with you? Bite your lips and endure sweet agony? See 1:26.

LINER NOTES:

More of Philip Fusco's flesh tones darkened by his 5 o'clock shadows at Homotrophy.